Giving Hope
by Anonymist
Summary: Haunted by her husband’s death and visions of Aragorn’s future, Gilraen seeks Elrond’s aid. Second place winner in Teitho's March contest.


_**Title: Giving Hope**_

_**Author: Anonymist**_

_**Rating: Teen**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to Tolkien's work.**_

_**Summary: Haunted by her husband's death and visions of Aragorn's future, Gilraen seeks Elrond's aid. Second place winner of the March Teitho contest.**_

_** A/N: No, I didn't die, I was just in cryogenic hibernation for a few months. Anyway, here it be. I haven't touched it since March, so any critique will be welcome. Please don't flame me.  
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**Giving Hope**

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_Cries rip through the morning mists. Sword clashes on sword; the sharp tang of new blood taints the forest air. The pines' thick shadow keeps dawn at bay, prolonging the battle. All seems far away to one who watches the tall, dark-haired man drawing his sword from the body of an orc. He swings it up in a gleaming arc to meet his next foe, determination in his grey eyes mirroring the much-used steel. Slice, dodge, parry, stab. It is a dance of death, and the ranger moves in perfect rhythm._

_The fighting moves away, and for a moment he stands still, sword point down on the soil. His keen grey eyes take in the carnage around them. The bright broadswords of the rangers grow black with orcish blood; they have the advantage, but only just. In the thick of the battle the peredhil move together with a deadly grace, twin blades flashing as one. The evil creatures fall by the score under their grim wrath._

_Near the fringes a younger dunadan struggles against a tall orc. The crooked scimitar darts beneath the young ranger's blade and slices a deep gash along his ribs. The tall ranger sees the blow, and runs to his comrade's aid._

_The scimitar swings up for the finishing blow—but never falls. Its bearer's head is rolling away among the churned-up loam. The tall ranger plunges further into the fray; slice, dodge, parry, strike. It is a dance for life, and he does not miss a step._

_The orcs' numbers dwindle. There are barely a handful left alive…and yet the rest do not flee. Suddenly a new cry rises over the chaos of combat: A howl of triumph from the enemy, a warning shout from the rangers. The tall man looks up—his face shines with dirt and sweat, the mist swirls in wisps around his feet, his silver eyes are alive and searching—and an arrow pierces his eye._

_The impact throws him back, slamming him cruelly into the ground. The sword drops from unwilling hands, slicing the mists into ribbons that scatter and vanish as at last the sun finds an opening and bursts through the pines. Elves and men race toward the source, heedless of the shafts flying thick as rain… but it is over. He is dead. He is gone. You are alone._

"Mama?" Small, cool hands patted her wet cheeks.

Gilraen opened her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Darkness, softened by a shaded lamp on the nightstand. Soft summer air from the open window, warm breath on her skin. Dreams again.

A warm body perched on her stomach, and the little hands moved to stroke her hair. "It's alright, Mama, don't cry," the boy whispered, though his own voice trembled on the verge of tears.

She sat up and wrapped her arms tightly around him, drying her tears on his soft, sweet-smelling curls as she gently kissed his crown. "Did I wake you, my Aragorn?" she murmured into his hair.

He didn't answer, but snuggled closer against her, twining his hands in the loose folds of her nightgown. Gilraen stroked his back, humming softly, letting the soothing motion calm her own fresh grief.

Every night, she relived it again. It was as vivid and terrible as that first flash of foresight, three days before they had brought Arathorn's body home to her. She knew that its horror and the overwhelming, helpless sorrow of it would haunt her for many years to come.

Gilraen sighed and smoothed the covers, absently straightening the hem of her son's nightshirt around his curled up legs. They were safe in Rivendell. Lord Elrond had given them a small, quiet guest house built near the elf lord's legendary home, giving them the privacy that Gilraen had so desperately needed, so soon after her husband's death. But not even the haven of the elves could fend off all fear.

It was fear that Gilraen fought in the late watches of the night, when despair could around her in a darkness that quenched the very stars. In those times she felt so alone; she was all the family that Aragorn had. And her fears woke him in the night…

Aragorn soon slept, breathing softly in her arms. But for Gilraen no rest came. She lay awake until dawn spilled grey over the windowsill.

-o-o-o-o-

"Mama! Can we go? Please, Mama?" Aragorn begged, tugging at her hand. The young dunadan gazed longingly at the archway that led into the gardens, where sunlight poured across the flagstones in a golden pathway. A warm, fragrant breeze swept in, teasing a few wisps out of Gilraen's freshly braided hair.

She tucked them back with an impatient gesture and glanced at the stairway that led to Lord Elrond's study, biting her lip. He had promised to see her that morning—a meeting for which Gilraen was already late. But the kind and usually dependable elleth who occasionally looked after Aragorn had not yet arrived. Gilraen knew that she could not discuss her troubles in front of her unusually perceptive son, so she lingered in the entrance hall, looking for a solution.

Two tall, raven-haired elves entered by another door, talking quietly together. They wore plain elven tunics in soft blues and greys, and both carried bows and quivers—most likely returning from a morning of practice. One carried his bow over one shoulder; the other held it loosely in one hand. Otherwise they were completely identical.

"My lords Elladan, Elrohir!" Gilraen called, grateful to see a familiar face. "I must see your father this morning, and there is no one to keep Aragorn. Will you play with him for a few minutes?"

The twins exchanged startled looks bordering on alarm, but Gilraen was already showering them with thanks. She bent and gave Aragorn a swift hug, pushed him gently toward the elf lords, then hurried up the stairs to her meeting, confident that she had left her son in good hands.

-o-o-o-o-

Elladan and Elrohir looked down at the small person who had just been placed in their care. The boy stared back with impossibly round gray eyes.

Elladan looked at Elrohir. "We haven't had much experience in play, El," he murmured too softly for Aragorn to hear. "Not since Arwen was a child."

Elrohir shrugged. "Then we shall have to relearn it." He dropped to one knee so than his face came level with the child's. "Your name is Aragorn?" he asked gently.

Aragorn nodded silently, suddenly shy between the two tall elves without the comforting presence of his mother.

Elrohir smiled. "A big name for such a little adan."

"I'm not little," Aragorn protested, holding up two chubby fingers. "I'm two years old!"

"I see," Elrohir chuckled.

Elladan knelt too, his eyes full of laughter. "Well, Aragorn who is two years old, this is my brother Elrohir, and I am Elladan. Would you like to come out into the garden with us?"

Aragorn nodded happily, and took a hand of each of the twins. Elladan met his brother's eyes over Aragorn's head. So far, so good…

They walked together through the sunlit door. A high wall encircled the garden, laced with windows and pillared openings that revealed unexpected vistas of the beautiful elven valley and its distant falls. A small tame stream bubbled in over a heap of boulders to feed a lily pool, adding its cheerful song to the music of the birds. Flowers blazed in a riot of colors. Here grew frilly foxglove, there tall pale lilies and dark violet crocuses gathered round the feet of a stately marble elf. Rogue blossoms sprang up in the most unexpected places, from the cracks in the ivy-grown wall to the hollow of the tall, narrow pine that stood like a shady guardian over it all.

Aragorn, entranced by this bright new world, dropped the hands of his companions and rant out into the grass. He stroked the soft leaves of silvery lamb's ear, and buried his nose in a bright red poppy. Its heady scent made him sneeze, and he laughed at the ticklish feeling.

Elrohir watched in delight as the boy explored every nook and cranny. Finishing off the orcs who slew the leader of the dunedain had kept the peredhil away for weeks. Somehow, Elrohir reflected, they had missed this change in this young guest of Rivendell.

Gone was the silent huge-eyed child that had clung to Gilraen's neck on the long, sorrowful ride from the settlement of the dunedain. This was a bright, eager Aragorn, who chattered incessantly after his initial shyness wore off, scrambling under shrubs and bushes with a human's typical glee at getting dirty. He dragged Elrohir by the hand to an anthill and watched in fascination as the tiny black insects marched in and out, and then scampered off again in what quickly became a game of tag.

Elrohir mock growled and chased after the boy, letting him escape at the last moment. Aragorn squealed gleefully as he dodged behind Elladan. The young human had forgotten his fear…or so Elrohir thought, until a heavy cloud over the sun deepened the shadows and Aragorn came running back to clutch Elladan's leg, burying his face in the elf's tunic.

"What is it, Aragorn?" Elladan asked, his hand falling on the boy's head in an instinctively comforting gesture.

"It's dark," Aragorn whimpered in a muffled voice.

"You are safe here, young one," Elladan assured, patting the dark curls awkwardly. "You have no need to fear."

"Does the cloud trouble you?" Elrohir asked, kneeling beside Aragorn. "I shall scare it away. Look how fierce I am!" Elrohir made a grimace that would have had any orc…not running, perhaps, but certainly staggered.

Aragorn peeked at Elrohir's face and giggled.

"Grr!" Elrohir added helpfully, and Aragorn giggled again. Elladan smirked unnoticed over their heads. He would have given an entire cask of Dorwinian for Legolas to see this usually reserved elven warrior pulling faces for a human child.

Elrohir, encouraged by his success, grinned fiercely and waggled his eyebrows up and down. "Yes, fierce indeed! I am a warrior, I scare bad things away."

Aragorn considered this for a moment. "Like Ada?" The elves exchanged quick glances.

"Yes, like Ada," Elrohir said softly. "We will protect you, Aragorn. I promise." The peredhel looked at his brother, and their eyes met, binding the vow.

"Come, little one," Elladan said in a brighter tone, taking Aragorn's hand once more. "I think we can find some more insects for you."

-o-o-o-o-

Sunlight gilded the three dark heads as they bent over a flower, and the child's delighted prattle floated up to the two watchers on a balcony overlooking the sheltered garden. A smile she'd forgotten about crept onto Gilraen's face as she turned to her companion. "They are good with him."

The tall elf lord that stood beside her smiled fondly down at his sons, the warmth of his expression gentling the hard lines that centuries of war and hardship had wrought in his fair face. He, like his sons, wore no sign of his station; the short-sleeved robe that flowed from his shoulders to brush the tops of his soft leather shoes better suited an elven healer than Rivendell's ruler. Only a ring with the silver star of Ëarendil's house hinted at the high lineage and great power that Elrond Halfelven, Lord of Imladris, possessed.

His long-fingered hands rested lightly on the balustrade. "It has been far too long since a child has brightened Rivendell."

"It has been long…" Gilraen murmured. Nearly a decade ago, and the children were older; it had been a harsh year when trolls and other breeds of evil had been multiplying, and Rivendell had opened its doors to a young Gilraen and several other children of the dunedain. In the same year the chieftain's son came wounded and weary to Elrond's care for healing, and Gilraen had met Arathorn for the first time.

"Laughter has forgotten this house of late." The shadow of a darker memory flickered over Elrond's features.

"Then perhaps it is time to begin anew," Gilraen said quietly, bringing her thoughts back to the present with an effort. "Not alone do the Dunedain have need of hope, my lord. The elves must see that not all light has faded out of Arda—especially, perhaps, your sons?"

They watched their children in silence for a few moments.

"You have found my weakness, Lady Gilraen," Elrond said at last. "For I would love nothing dearer than to see my sons at peace with Arda once more." He turned and smiled at her sadly, as if he too were remembering happier times. "But I had already meant to ask you to stay. No place could be more secure for the heir of Arathorn's house."

Gilraen inclined her head graciously. "I thank you, Lord Elrond. But I would ask more from you than that." Gilraen turned away from the bright scene in the garden and walked into the study, her heart heavy. "Aragorn will stay in Imladris. But I may not." Seeing Elrond's puzzled frown, she hastened to explain. "I love him more than life itself, Eru knows, but I fear for him. I dream at night. It frightens him."

Gilraen felt her composure slipping as she remembered long nights past. The heartache, seeing Arathorn fall night after night, the times when the burden of bringing up Aragorn only to heap an even greater responsibility on his shoulders seemed too much for one soul to carry. There were moments of loneliness and loss, when she would take Aragorn into her arms just to feel his closeness. She could not bear to lose him—even now, the thought of leaving him wrenched her grieving heart. But for his sake…

She willed the tears welling in her eyes to vanish and looked at Elrond steadily. "I am asking—nay, I am pleading with you to take my son, and foster him."

Dark eyebrows rose in surprise. "Do you have a reason for this, Lady Gilraen?" He didn't sound angry or derisive; just inquiring. Encouraged by this, Gilraen continued.

"You know that some of us have the gift of foresight. I have not the wisdom nor the insight that some may have…" here she faltered; she knew that Elrond himself could foresee things she could not dream of, and here she was daring to tell him what the future held. Steeling herself, she pressed on. "But I know this. My son will need you, Elrond Ëarendilion. He will need you, your sons…and another," she added with strange certainty. "Aragorn is the last of his house. He will be alone so much of his life, my lord. Now most of all he needs to be safe from fear. I…" she sighed. "I cannot give that to him. I would not leave him, but he cannot depend on me for comfort. I have failed him."

"Here me, Gilraen," Elrond said sternly. "You have brought your son to safety; he is well and whole and will know life as a man. The line of Elendil lives on. You have not failed in this." He touched her shoulder, and his voice gentled. "You have no need to hang your head, daughter of the north. No one faults you, not for mourning one you loved, nor for wishing to stay with your son. I do not doubt what you have seen, but Aragorn does need your love. Not I or anyone else can replace that, Gilraen."

"I see a dark road before him," Gilraen said softly. "I see pain and suffering and sorrow; I see long and thankless labor into the night. I cannot see the end, Lord Elrond. I fear where it will take him."

"None of us can see all ends," he reminded her gently.

"There is such darkness," she shivered as the future touched her mind once more, vast and terrible and full of uncertainties. "Hope is so small…"

It was as if all the darkness and evil of the world gathered in around her; the sun vanished behind the clouds and the study seemed dim and cold. Only a tiny flame like a sword defied the shadow and its malice, and as she watched it flickered. Her heart sprang into her throat, and she feared it would be snuffed forever, leaving the world wholly dark.

"But it shines bright," Elrond's warm silver voice cut through the vision and brought her back to the sunlight. "And it does not go out."

Gilraen blinked and looked at the elf lord with questioning eyes. He smiled at her, and this time real joy tempered the deep sorrow in his eyes. "Do not let go of hope so easily. It is yours, Lady Gilraen. There is time enough to give it to Arda."

-o-o-o-o-

"Aragorn, I have a surprise for you!" Gilraen announced as she combed his hair that night. "We will be living in Lord Elrond's home soon."

The little boy bounced on the edge of the bed in excitement, tangling the curls she had just painstakingly rid of all the bark and leaves he had mysteriously picked up while in the twins' care. "With 'Dan and 'Roh?" he asked, grey eyes sparkling.

"With who?" Gilraen laughed. "Oh, I see. Elladan and Elrohir. Yes, with them."

"Will I see them every day?" Aragorn asked, awed by the prospect.

"Yes, dear one," Gilraen said, smiling. "Tomorrow, and for a long while to come. You will have a new house, Aragorn, and a new name, too." She paused and smiled. It was the name she would have chosen for her son; it suited him perfectly. "You shall be Estel."

"Estel?" Aragorn-Estel wrinkled his nose at the thought. "Why, Mama?"

A dozen reasons flew through her mind, and none of them could be properly explained to a curious child. Darker things than orcs sought the heir of Elendil, desiring to end the line, and with it any hope of men's redemption. Elrond had thought it wise to conceal the fact that Arathorn's heir lived on in Rivendell. "It's like a game," Gilraen said at last, falling on the time-honored ploy. "I will have a new name too. You'll be Estel, I'll be Duniell. Do you like that?"

A long silence followed this. "Can you not be Mama anymore?" Aragorn asked in a small voice.

"Oh, sweetheart," Gilraen hugged him tightly. "I will always be your mama," she said warmly. "And you will always be mine, my Estel."

My hope, she repeated silently. Thought she could not see the end of the road for Estel, nor where every turn in life's path would lead him, she trusted that her son would grow into a man who could walk in such darkness and not be overshadowed. He would bring hope to many. And he would not be alone.

-o-o-o-o-

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End file.
